


The Case

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: AU, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, M/M, Sherlock - Freeform, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John meet two new FBI agents on one of their cases that send them into a whole new investigation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Suicide

Sherlock looked quickly over the body that lay on the floor. The pool of time blackened blood sluggishly glistened in the dusty light that fell through the window. The body had a deep slit carved skillfully into the neck as well as long cuts on each arm from the shoulder to the wrist.

John surveyed the rest of the room, quietly flipping through pieces of paper that cluttered the desk in the corner. The room itself was very bare, a desk and a bed and now, a body. John took all this in with a quiet silence, waiting for Sherlock to finish his examination of the body before he stated his own findings.

“What do you think John?” Sherlock asked as he turned the arms to inspect the cuts that ran their length.

“Could be suicide.” he answered simply.

“Why?”

John’s brow furrowed and he set his shoulders in concentration. “Well there’s no fingerprints, according to Anderson,” Sherlock scoffed, “and based on the letters and bills on the desk, it doesn’t seem like he was in a good place financially or socially.”

Sherlock gave a small nod, straightening up and looking at John for the first time. “Good.”

“Really?”

“Well, good for you John, wrong, but a good deduction based on the facts that you told me which, by the way, are completely irrelevant.”

John sighed, not surprised in the least. “Well, run me through it Sherlock.”

“Well normally I would agree with you. The letters point to suicide as well as the quite obvious cut across the throat however, the cuts on down each arm are illogical for a suicide and coupled with the fact that he’s wearing cologne leads away from suicide. Obviously, a man of his financial situation would not usually waste his money buying a cologne. So why would he buy it? Based on his clothing, semi-dressy, we can conclude he had a date-” He cut off in irritation as the single door leading into the room opened, reveling two very tall men in sleek suites.

“I told them to leave us alone. Leave.” Sherlock said closing the door on them. “As I was saying, it makes no sense-”

The door opened again. The shorter man stepped forward, “F.B.I” he stated and both he and his partner held up their badges.

Sherlock glanced at them, “Congratulations” he said attempting to close the door on them once more but this time, the shorter man caught the door and held it open.

“Excuse me, sir. I’m Agent Bristol and this is Agent Filler. We’re here to investigate the death of Phil Hartman.” He said, pushing himself into the room, his partner following.

The two of them dwarfed John and Sherlock in both height and stature. Both were well muscled and had looks about them that reminded John of male models. The shorter one had blonde, brown hair that was cut short, almost army style, with green eyes straight from a fairytale. Agent Filler’s hair hung around mid-neck, deep brown along with his eyes.

After a few seconds of silence, John realized Sherlock wasn’t about to make any introductions.

“I’m John Watson and this is my partner Sherlock Holmes.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Agent Filler said holding his hand out to Sherlock before dropping it awkwardly when Sherlock made no move to shake it. He cleared his throat, “Anyway, if you wouldn’t mind clearing the room so we can get on with our investigation.”

John steeled himself for Sherlock’s cutting retort and was surprised when all he uttered was a demure, “Of course” before leaving the room. John followed confused as ever, gritting his teeth as he heard, “Freaking psyco” just before he closed the door. 

___________________

“Pretty stable E.M.F. rating.” Agent Filler, i.e. Sam Winchester, commented as he walked around the room.

Dean, Agent Bristole, knelt down by the body, “Alright, so what are we looking at? Vengeful spirit?”

“Makes sense to me.” Sam said giving the body a once over. “I’ll go back to the hotel room and check out the hotels history, see if there’s anything vengeful spirit material.”

“Sounds good. I’ll talk to his family, see if they know anything.” 

___________________

“Sherlock, what are we doing?” John hissed exasperated. He and Sherlock had been hiding behind the apartment where the suicide took place for the past half hour.

Sherlock, who had kept a careful eye on the traffic in and out of the house, refused to say anything, ignoring all of John’s questions.

“Sherlock, I refuse to stand here like a criminal. Now, either you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on or we’re going to go home-” Sherlock’s hand whipped out, placing a single, light finger over John’s lips, silencing him.

“Those men in there were fake.” He said, turning back to the front of the house.

“What? Who? The F.B.I. agents?”

“No, the suicide, turns out he was killed by ghosts. Yes, of course the F.B.I. agents!”

“Then why on Earth didn’t you say anything? They could be destroying evidence.”

“What, on a suicide case, no point.” He said as the two ‘agents’ walked from the house and toward on old 67 Chevy Impala that was parked down the road. Sherlock grabbed John’s sleeve, dragging him out to the road and catching a taxi, it seemed to be a skill of his, and shoving him into the cab.

“Follow that car,” he told the driver, “ The Chevy”

___________________

Dean loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first button on his shirt as they drove away.

“You heard from Cas lately?” He asked Sam.

“Nope, it’s been a good month without contact, either Heaven’s a mess again or he’s deemed us unworthy of his attention.”

Dean grimaced, “Little bastard’s been too quiet. It’s making me uneasy...keep an eye on that cab will you?” Dean asked, glancing up at his center mirror.

“Why”

“I think it’s following us.”

 

Dean rolled up into the parking lot of the hotel, sliding into the nearest parking space.

“What happened to interviewing family?” Sam asked sarcastically as Dean got up out of the car.

“Nah,” he said looking across the street to a bar and then up at the darkening sky, “it’s getting too late.”

Sam simply shook his head, grabbed his bag, and headed into their room.

Dean looked around for the cab once more, they had lost it a few turns back, before straightening his jacket and making his way across the street to the bar. 

___________________

“Stop here please.” Sherlock said, paying the cabbie and stepping out onto the sidewalk, about two blocks from the hotel where the Chevy had turned in. He and John made their way down the street, turning a corner just in time to see ‘Agent Bristol’ duck into a rundown bar across the street from a hotel.

“What now?” Asked John.

Sherlock looked around for a moment before turning to him. “Fancy a drink?”

___________________

Her name started with an ‘M’, that was all Dean remembered but, to be fair, it wasn’t really her he was interested in but the friend she had come with. She was nice, if you liked girls who went to a bar in a cat jumper and nervous laughter was your thing, thought Dean, taking another sip of his beer.

She had stopped talking and was looking at him expectantly.

“Yeah.” he said with a little laugh, having no idea what she had just said.

She gave a small laugh, her brow furrowing afterward, “You’re not,” she laughed, “you’re not listening are you?” He tried to make up some excuse but she interrupted him before he could get the first word out, “No it’s fine,” she said with a sad smile on her face, “God knows I’m used to it.” She gave a sad little laugh before, without looking at him again, getting up and walking out of the bar, smiling sadly and shaking her head.

Dean watched her go feeling like a jerk and desperately trying to remember her name, more to make himself feel better than to call her back. Just as she reached the door, it came to him.

“Molly.” He said to himself, turning back to his beer. “Molly Hooper.”


	2. The Beginning of a Scavenger Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam get sent on a scavenger hunt while John and Sherlock are confused and domestic.

Sherlock and John spent the majority of the next two hours in the pub. Sherlock sat stoically, keeping an eye on 'Agent Bristol' while John traveled around the bar attempting to pick up a few girls. The most recent one was a simply dressed blonde with long hair and an impish face. Sherlock sighed in embarrassment for John as he watched him clumsily offer to buy a drink and attempt to start a conversation. From her body language Sherlock could tell she wasn't interested but, John, as usual, saw but did not observe. Eventually John gave up, as Sherlock knew he would, and came back to sit with him. 

"What was her name?" He asked dryly.

"Oh shut up Sherlock. I know you don't care." he answered angrily. Sherlock said nothing in response to that, knowing it was better to stay silent that to accidentally provoke John even more. John took a sip of his beer, seeming to recover himself from his outburst. "Her name was Meg. She...she was nice." Internally Sherlock groaned. He shouldn't have asked have asked in the first place. The last thing he wanted was John talking about his (strange) fascination with women again. 

"Why did you leave?" It would seem rude if he didn't continue the conversation. His mind on the other hand was busy whirring away and making deductions about the man who claimed to be and FBI agent. He had been watching him carefully and, from what he had heard from across the room, he was using different names for every new girl he met which, even Sherlock noticed, was an impressive amount. Sometimes he was Cas, sometimes Bobby, sometimes Sam, and sometimes Dean. He picked them without any clear pattern or system. If Sherlock had to guess his name right then and there he would have said Dean simply because he used the name more gingerly than the others, as if trying not to take attention to it. 

John broke him out of his contemplation. "She said she felt bad for stealing me away from my boyfriend." 

Sherlock hid a smirk, knowing it would foul John's mood completely. "It is a logical conclusion." he answered instead. Sherlock watched as the man got out his wallet and began fishing for money. The wallet was worn long beyond the time it should have been replaced. 

Sherlock began standing up, putting on his coat and placing money on the table. John looked at him in surprise. 

"Let's go home." 

____________________

"So get this," said Sam as Dean walked blearily through the door, "it turns out the building's had a string of 'suicides' dating all the way back to 1977 when a women, Annie Butler, was murdered by her own husband. According to the article, he bleed her out until finally cutting her throat." 

"Great, so let's torch the bitch. Where's she buried?" Dean asked falling onto the bed. 

"Well that's the thing, she was cremated along with he husband who was said to have committed suicide a week later." 

"Dammit." he groaned. "Any family?"

"A daughter, Barbra Butler, who now lives just outside the city." 

"Fantastic," he said sarcastically. "Old people."

"Oh come on, after all the things we do on a weekly basis and you complain about old people?" 

"They...smell weird and their skin just...creeps me out." 

Sam gave a small chuckle, returning to his computer. 

_________________

Sherlock was already perching on his chair by the time John wandered sleepily down stairs the next morning. He plodded into the kitchen, putting on a cup of tea, automatically making enough for the two of them. Grabbing a newspaper from their dinning room table he stopped, surprised at the sight of Sherlock. He sitting in the chair, wrapped in his usual blue robe holding a necklace. 

"What's that?" 

Sherlock meet John's gaze, looking as if someone had just woken hims from a deep sleep. "A necklace." he said looking down at it as if just remembering its existence. 

"Obviously. I suppose I was wondering why, exactly, you had it." 

"I got it from the crime scene. It was lying under the bed." 

John shook his head slightly getting ready to lecture Sherlock (yet again) about the concept that artifacts at the crime scene were supposed to stay at the crime scene. "Why?" was all he said instead.

Sherlock looked at him, his head tilted slightly to the side, as if puzzled. "Because I thought it was odd." 

John held out his hand and Sherlock handed it to him as John sat down across from him. The necklace turned out to be a locket, old and the picture inside even older still. The photograph was of a young girl dressed in old fashioned clothing. It was browned with age and the face obscured with time. John guessed the locket and chain itself were made out of silver, tarnished brown by years of exposure. He handed it back to Sherlock. 

"Do you think it's important?" he asked. Sherlock said nothing simple folding his hands around it and resuming his normal 'thinking' pose. John knew he wouldn't get much more out of him for the rest of the day. 

_______________

"Could you tell us about your mother?" Sam asked. 

The two of them were sitting in what could only be described as the most stereotypical granny house ever to have existed. The walls were covered with old portraits and pictures. Everything had a doily or was made out of a floral print. The curtains, to the lumpy old couch Dean was presently sitting on, to the table cloth on the coffee table in front of him. He couldn't stop fidgeting, everything was just so...domestic and pretty...too pretty. He hated it. Sam on the other had seemed completely at ease, gratefully sipping on the tea that Barbra had served them, the flower painted cup seeming minuscule in comparison to his hands. 

"Well she was a wonderful mother," Barbra began. The old lady was worse, wrinkled and saggy. Her hands shook every time she grabbed something and it made Dean nervous. He could just imagine the lady accidentally stabbing herself with the butter-knife if she wasn't careful. On top of all that, she smelled like old people, like stuffiness and old clothing and like tea and milk which, coincidentally, was what he was being forced to drink. 

"She took me out to the park at the end of the street every Sunday after church and we'd have such a wonderful time. She always had a bit of trouble with my father though. I remember the what the women used to say when she'd leave the room and thought I wasn't listening. Why, they'd say, they'd say, 'Poor child, such a gentle heart, too kind to see the messy, flirt of a husband she has'. Why, on time I remember Old Nanny saying-" 

"Excuse me, sorry, could you tell me more about your father?" Sam interrupted. After the two of them had listened to the old lady ramble on about a cat that used to live on their street when she were a child for a good half an hour, Sam learned quickly to interrupt and steer her back onto course. She didn't seem to mind, in fact Dean would have bet she loved the fact she had an audience at all. 

"Oh he was a nasty man, even before what he did to mom. See, he used to go down to the pub and flirt with any lady within ten feet of him. 'Course he didn't really care about them, he just wanted a quick go in the back room. Most of the time, he didn't even know their name."

"Is that why he killed your mother?" Dean asked

"Partly. I remember it all, I was downstairs in my room when it happened. Dad had come home late that night as he usually did but that night, my mother confronted him about it, said she didn't want him fooling around with other women. Well he got real angry about that. The rest of it I'm sure you read. I went downstairs to the landlady and she called the police but by the time they arrived, she was already dead. Then Dad was murdered a week later-"

"Wait? I'm sorry murdered? The paper said it was suicide." Sam interrupted.

"Oh it was murder alright. Mom came back from the dead and murdered him."

"Why do you say that?" Sam asked with a quick glance at Dean. 

"Well it's the only thing that makes sense. He was on house arrest and no one was allowed in and out except one guard to give him food but he hadn't even delivered the food that day and they found him freshly killed." 

"Wow that's, that's fascinating." Dean said. "Um, say, you don't have anything of your Mom's, hair, jewelry, glasses, anything?" 

"Oh, I used to have a locket that she always wore before she died. I lost it the day I moved out. I reckon it's still somewhere in that house." Bingo, thought Dean. 

"Well thank you ma'am for your time, it's been a pleasure." Sam said standing up, Dean following suite in relief. 

"Thank you boys for stopping by." She said and escorted them to the front door, continually offering them lunch before they left. 

When finally they escaped into the car, Dean sighed, leaning into the seat. "So the scavenger hunt begins"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I figured the based on Dean's childhood he probably wouldn't be very accustomed to elderly people so I had a bit of fun with this chapter with that idea. If you didn't notice, all of the relationships at the top are more what I'm planning on writing at this point in time and are subject to change. I'm also having some problems with the "Notes" section. I'll figure that out. Anyways, I hoped you liked it ~S


	3. Time Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does an experiment on John and Sam and Dean have an unexpected visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ones all fluff. I'm still trying to plan out the next bit of the story and I don't have much time. Kinda short but I'll do better next time. ~S

"SHERLOCK!" 

The yell reverberated throughout 221B, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts. He hid a smirk as John walked into the room. 

"John you really must think about Mrs. Hudson. What she must think of the noise you-"

"What the hell is this Sherlock?" John interrupted, holding up a jumper (one of his more ugly ones, Sherlock might add) that looked as thought it had been sent through a hole puncher an innumerable number of times. 

"An experiment." 

"Sherlock you can't just- I can't believe you sometimes- Why did you think this was aright?!" John stuttered in anger. "This was my favorite jumper!" 

"It was an experiment John." Sherlock said soothingly. 

"It looks like it's been torn apart by a dog!" 

"Yes, a very interesting reaction..." Sherlock mused looking absently at the jumper. 

"It's completely ruined. What the hell, Sherlock?" 

"I don't know," Sherlock began with a smirk. "It might look rather fetching on you now." A comment that earned him a jumper in the face and a very angry John storming into the kitchen. 

John knew better than to try to lecture Sherlock. He had tried once but had only ended up with a Sherlock that wouldn't talk to him for days which, John discovered, made them both quite miserable. That was the time Sherlock had began growing mold in his room to try to narrow down on the plant that caused his allergies in the spring. Of course, the worst one was when he had added a chemical to John's shampoo that made his hair grow exceedingly fast on his head and also on his feet. Resulting in a rather, what Sherlock referred to as, a hobbit-like look. 

Silently fuming, John sat down in his chair, nursing a cup of tea. Without thinking about it, he sat there staring at Sherlock, staring at his jumper. The man, however irritating he may be, was defiantly an extraordinary specimen in both mind and body, John mussed as his anger faded away. Seeming to hear John's thoughts, Sherlock slowly looked up at John, a small smile playing around his lips. John felt heat rise to his face and looked quickly back to his tea, knowing, without looking, Sherlock's smile had grown as he deduced every feeling John was trying to repress. 

________________

"So I was thinking we that we should probably check in with the detectives and see if they found any lockets in the apartment"

"Jesus Sam, give it a break. I've just had three hours of old granny, I need something that won't make my eyes bleed." Dean said collapsing on one of the beds in their hotel room. 

A comfortable silence began to spread between them as Sam turned to his lap top and Dean lay on the bed, staring absently at the pop corn ceiling, his thoughts wandering. A flutter of wings broke the silence and all of a sudden Cas was standing on top of the other bed, making Dean jump in surprise. 

"Dammit Cas!" Dean yelled, sitting up from his lying position and glancing at Sam who seemed just as started as he did.

"Hello Dean," Cas said calmly turning to him. "Sam." The angel was dressed as he usually was, tax accountant who looked like he'd just had the best night of his life. 

"Some warning next time would be nice. Where the hell have you been anyway?" Dean said sarcastically, relaxing back into the bed.

Cas looked down at him, deciding whether or not to respond, turning away he simply said. "I'm here to help."

There was a pause. "With what?" asked Sam

Cas tilted his head slightly in confusion, "I assume you are working a job. I'm here to assist you." 

"What, did heaven give you a vacation?" Dean said sarcastically.

"Not so much of a vacation as a suspension."

"I'm sorry, heaven gave you a time-out?" Sam asked incredulously.

"There is no need for you to be sorry." Cas said, "Well, they used the term 'temporary suspension' but the concept is the same, yes."

"Jesus Cas, what'd you do?" Dean laughed, "Were you not playing nicely with the other angels?"

"I would rather not talk about it." Cas said locking his brilliant blue eyes with Deans, which defiantly did not make Dean's stomach flip-flop. 

Sam cleared his throat, "So you want to help? We're working what we think is a vengeful spirit job, nothing really interesting."

"That will suffice. What are we going to do?" Cas asked.

"We'll start up again tomorrow, looking for the locket we think the spirits latched onto. Until then, the three of us are going to grab some dinner. I'm starving." Dean said throwing on his jacket and leading the way out the door.


	4. Exposure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head between Sherlock and John and Sam and Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised actually pertaining to the plot this time. Unedited so forgive me for any sloppy sentences ~S

Everything was how it usually was in the office, with the exception of the two ‘F.B.I. agents’. To John’s surprise and Lestrade’s confusion, Sherlock seemed incredibly disappointed in the fact that he was the only one to realize their fraud.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had called he and Sherlock in that morning after Sherlock neglected to report their findings on the suicide. After some grumbling about not being “some empty-headed employee that comes whenever called” John eventually got Sherlock out of the apartment and into a cab to the office. 

And all was normal until the two men walked into the office, previously occupied only by Sherlock, John and, Lestrade. 

“Hello Detective Inspector,” Agent Filler began, walking up to Greg and shaking his hand. “We’re inquiring after a locket that might have been found at the crime scene.” 

After a quick glance at Sherlock, Lestrade cleared his throat somewhat nervously. “Actually we have substantial evidence it’s a suicide.”

Sherlock groaned, “Please, Lestrade, you know as well as I do this is no suicide.” The two ‘agents’ shared a quick glance and then turned to Sherlock in surprise. 

“Actually, we have to agree with him, sir. Now, would you please check to see if there was a locket at the crime scene, it would be old, about fifty, sixty years old.” 

“Yes, excuse me, I’ll check.” Lestrade said, standing up and throwing a glance between the two parties of men before leaving the room. John stood their awkwardly, knowing the locket they searched for was hidden in Sherlock’s inner pockets. 

As if reading his mind, Sherlock reached into his jacket and pulled it out, “I don’t suppose this is the locket you’re looking for.” 

“Where did you get that?” Agent Filler asked. 

“Crime scene. First come, first serve.” Sherlock said with a humorless smile. 

“I’m going to have to ask you to hand that over.” 

“Ah, see there’s a problem, Agent, oh what does it say on your badge? Han Solo?” Sherlock said stepping forward and holding out his hand. Reluctantly Agent Filler succumbed, handing over his badge.” 

Sherlock took it and began walking around the room reading the information on the badge aloud, “Birth date: May 17, 2007; Name: Han Solo; Field of Office: Fairyland; Specialty: Salt and Burn .” Sherlock came to a stop in front of the two agents. “Doesn’t really sound like a typical F.B.I. agent does it.”

“That date of birth is surprisingly accurate actually.” Agent Bristol muttered, which Sherlock ignored

“So we have a quite a few things to deal with. First you’re going to tell me the importance of the locket, you’re going to tell me what exactly your interest was in this case, you’re going to tell me your real names and don’t even think of lying to me. I can guarantee you, I’ll catch you.” 

“What, just so you can put us in jail.” Agent Bristol nearly spat, all past professional pretense gone.

“So that you two can just escape again within a couple of hours? No, your fate will be much worse.” 

The two agents stood looking at him in a defeated silence and exchanged another communicative glance. 

“I’m Dean and this is Sam.” Agent Bristol began gesturing to Agent Filler. “We’re hunters.” 

“I assume you mean you hunt more than the typical deers.” John said.

Sam grimaced. “We hunt things that you would think are from stories.” He paused and Sherlock raised an eyebrow prompting him. “Demons, vampires, werewolves, ghosts, shape-shifters, you get the gist.” 

“Come on, Sherlock. They’re insane, that’s all.” John said with a chuckle that quickly died out as he say Sherlock’s expression. He stood staring at the two of them, taking in every detail, his brow furrowed. “Sherlock.” He said in disbelief. 

“John.” He turned around looking John in the eye. He moved closer, until he was just inches away from John’s face, eyes searching, always searching. “What?” 

John’s heart was hammering. He stared at the man in front of him, taking in every detail, eventually loosing himself in Sherlock’s eyes. 

“What John?” Sherlock whispered again, a small smirk forming. 

“You.” John said with irritation, trying his best to create more distance so Sherlock wouldn’t see his face flush.

Dean looked over at Sam raising his eyebrows. 

Sam gave and exasperated chuckle, “Please, like you’re one to talk.” 

Sherlock whipped around, drawing Sam’s attention forward. Dean turned as well, trying to figure out the implications of Sam’s statement. 

“The locket? What does that have to do with anything?” Sherlock asked, back into interrogation mode. 

“Well, we believe that what killed Phil Hartman was a vengeful spirit, which is pretty much what it sounds like. Normally they're created by someone dying a horrible death and then usually they target those similar to their killer. 

“Normally you can stop them by salt and burning their corpse. In this case, though, the person who we believe killed Phil was cremated which means that they’re holding onto this world through an object, for instance a locket.” Sam explained. 

“And to stop it?” John asked tuning into the conversation a little belatedly. 

“Salt and burn the object.” 

Silence stretched over the office as Sherlock studied them. John shook his head in disbelief. The man who had discounted the gigantic hound he’d seen with his own eyes, the man who worked through everything logically and relied purely on fact was beginning to believe in ghosts. All four jumped as the door opened and Lestrade walked in.

“So I checked with the with the others. They said they didn’t-” 

Sherlock walked over and began pushing him out the door with a quick, “This is no longer your division.” Before turning back to Sam and Dean. “You two are coming coming home with us. I’m going to need to see some evidence.” said Sherlock, sweeping out of the room and ignoring the yelling Lestrade outside. 

John ushered the two men out of the office hearing a faint, “Come along, John.” from up ahead.


	5. Proof and Conflict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam give Sherlock and John inescapable proof that they're telling the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long! I've been incredibly busy and then distracted and then busy again. Unedited, forgive me for any mistakes. ~S

A deep silence had taken root in the flat while John made tea. The three men sat in the living room; Sam and Dean looking particularly uncomfortable under Sherlock's piercing gaze. As soon as the four of them had entered the flat, Sherlock had perched himself atop his chair hands pressed together under his chin and after an awkward minute Sam and Dean had settled on the couch. John toddled around the kitchen, not particularly accustomed to making tea for four. 

Sherlock watched the two of them sit. They were brothers, that much was clear in the way they acted around each other. Both were scared both outside and, judging from the circles underneath their eyes, inside. Dean was a drinker and Sam a recovered drug addict. He couldn't match the symptoms to any drug in particular though which frustrated Sherlock. He had the haunted look in his eyes, but lacked the shaking hands. He seemed more on edge than could qualify for their given situation but not reckless of jumpy. 

"What drug were you addicted to?" He asked his voice breaking the silence like a whip. 

"Sherlock." John sighed with exasperation from the kitchen. 

"What?" Sam asked looking around when he realized the question was directed at him.

"I asked," Sherlock said, drawling on, "What drug were you addicted to?"

"I- I wasn't- I've never been addicted to a drug." Sam protested glancing at Dean. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "I could rattle off your symptoms to you, wasting a lot of time and no doubt ending with some ridiculous comment from John or, you can tell me what drug you were addicted to.

Sam looked at Dean who shrugged, "Why not, maybe it'll convince them we're insane and they'll let us go." 

"Demon blood." 

John nearly dropped the tea tray he was carrying. "Pardon?"

"I was addicted to demon blood. Not completely my fault but..." Sam trailed off. 

John turned to Sherlock who's expression hadn't changed, "Seriously Sherlock. What the hell? This is ridiculous." 

Sherlock ignored him, gazing intently on Sam, "I need proof." 

The brother's exchanged a glance. "Well it's not like we can just conjure something out of thin air. It takes preparation and ingredients-" Sam began before interrupted by Dean. 

"Actually we could try." Dean said with a smirk, standing up and began walking aimlessly around the flat. "Alright Cas! Get your feathery ass down here!," he yelled, then suddenly calming down. "Dear God, please give Castiel a time out for not listening to me recently. He's just being one son of a bitch right now. Oh wait, sorry didn't mean to insult you....Seriously Cas, get out of the fluffy clouds and get your holy ass down here!" 

There was silence as Dean finished his rant/prayer. 

"What Mrs. Hudson must think." John groaned, collapsing into his chair, tea in hand. 

There was a flapping of wings and Castiel appeared in front of the fireplace. 

"Holly sh-" John cried spilling his tea and jumping up from his chair. Sherlock jumped in surprise, standing on his chair. 

"Hello Dean. Sam." 

"Hey Cas." Dean said walking over to him smugly, putting one arm round his shoulder. "Sherlock, John, this is Castiel, angel of the Lord or as he's known around here, Cas the most irritating angel who won't answer my freaking messages." 

"I've been busy Dean." 

"Doing what?" He said exasperated.

"That is irrelevant." Sherlock interrupted. "How did you manage to transport like that?"

"What the hell are you?" John asked, for the first time not caring about the fact that he'd spilled his tea and all over his favorite jumper. 

"Sherlock Holmes and John Hammish Watson. It's nice to meet you."

"How?" was all Sherlock said in answer.

"Unfortunately for you Mr. Holmes, there is no scientific answer for that question." Sherlock was silent. "I am a wave of celestial intent. I am not governed by the rules of physics." 

"Everything is governed by physics." Sherlock said, as if reciting it from a book.

There was a flapping of wings and then Castiel disappeared and then reappeared right in front of Sherlock who remained unfazed. "You've found your exception then." He near whispered. They stood almost nose to nose locked in some sort of staring contest. 

John and Dean both cleared their throat at the same time. Sam watched the two of them with a small smile as they reclaimed their partners (in more ways than they wanted to admit) breaking them apart and then standing across from each other in some strange stand-off. 

"Alright," he said with a small sigh, stepping in between them. "Here's what we're going to do. Dean, Cas, and I are going back to the hotel. You keep the locket so you know we'll come back and we'll meet up tomorrow so that we can all cool down and adjust to some changes in our worlds." He said the last bit to Sherlock who threw him back a look that should have killed him.


	6. Silences of Different Kinds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After quite a disastrous argument in the cafe both parties are left with a good deal to think about. Unless you're Sam, then you just get to watch and laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm alive. Sorry this took so ridiculously long. I haven't really written much in a while but enough excuses. I also went back and edited the older chapters a bit, got rid of a fees discrepancies. Thank you for the nice comments. They were a big help in getting me writing again. ~S

The silence was something from a movie. It was thick, heavy, and just downright miserable. In fact, John was surprised it wasn't affecting the rest of the people in the cafe. The two parties sat opposite each other, three against two, sipping coffee or tea, a silent war of wills raging across the table. Neither party wanted to break the silence first, at this point, that would be considered defeat. Sherlock sat there, eyes scrutinize every detail of the three men, inhaling their life stories. 

"I'm sorry, is there some human ritual I'm unaware of?" Castiel asked all of a sudden, making both Sam and John start. "Why are we sitting here and staring at each other. I was not aware this was custom." 

Dean chuckled, "It's not Cas. It's not a custom."

"Then why-"

"Cassiel, you are know for being the angle that simply watched, never interfered, and yet here you are on Earth, messing with events." Sherlock interrupted.

"Common misconception, it's Castiel, with a 'T'" He answered, unperturbed by the sudden change of subject.

"So you're not the angle of Thursday."

"I am. It turns out that spelling isn't the human-race's forte." Cas said dryly, if not a little bitterly. 

Dean raised his eyebrows, "Are you telling me you're name is a typo?"

"No, well, it's complicated." To which Dean replied with only a chuckle. Sherlock examined them harshly, cogs in his head visibly turning.

"Dude, you're staring. What?" Dean asked.

Sherlock glanced between the two of them once more. "Your dynamic is interesting." He said with a slight drawl, implying just enough that it made Dean flush and John caught Sam stifling a chuckle. 

"I do not understand what you mean by 'interesting'." stated Castiel. 

"I mean," Sherlock said with a sigh. "The two of you work together seamlessly, unconsciously even. You adjust for each other's movements. You sit about 3cm closer to each other than normal people would and that's including the fact Castiel tends to put himself closer to people than the majority of humans, possibly the side affect of being an angel. Plus there's the fact that when I commented on the fact of your relationship being 'interesting' Dean blushed, not something people are prone to do when told a fact about a friendship of theirs and Dean, if you turn any more red you may be mistaken for a tomato. So yes, I'm sure that there is nothing unusual about your 'friendship' in the least."

"Sherlock!" John admonished.

"Honestly John," Sherlock said exasperated, meeting his eyes. "It's so obvious I wouldn't have wasted my time with it. Castiel was the one who asked for an explanation." They both turned back to the three men across from them. One red in the face from suppressed laughter, one red for a completely different reason, and one looking back with clear, blue, unperturbed eyes. 

"It is true Dean and I share a more profound bond." Castiel stated simply. John's eyebrows shot up. 

"This goes far beyond a hand print on his shoulder and his rescue from hell." Sherlock said blandly, picking up his phone, fingers moving swiftly across the keys. "I suggest you close your mouth Dean. You're beginning to look like a fish. It really doesn't suit that pretty face of yours." 

Deans mouth shut with an audible click. 

"I'm sorry, did I hear you mention hell?" John said, ignoring a twinge of jealously he felt a Sherlock's previous statement.

"What the hell, man?!" Dean interrupted before Sherlock could answer. "I don't know what kind of psychopathic freak you are but you don't talk to people like that. Its freakish and rude and upsetting and-"

"Don't talk to him like that." John interrupted as calmly as he could. "He's not a freak and he's not a psychopath. A rude git that has far too much intellect for his own good, yes. But never call him a freak." It was a cool kind of anger that John exhibited completely at contrast with Dean's fiery rage, meeting across the table in a steaming war.

The table descended again into a heavy silence. 

_________________________

Sam found the whole encounter strangely interesting and far more entertaining than he should have. It was nice that Sherlock had at least implied what he had never had the courage to ask Dean about. And, if his reaction from today were any example, Sam was almost glad he hadn't, almost. 

He had noticed the dynamic of the two of them change right before Cas had gone all "phenomenal cosmic power" and turned into a replacement God. Things had obviously fallen apart after than but had obviously been reconciled during their stay in Purgatory. It was strange, almost as if they'd started to grow around each other without ever realizing it. Like two trees planted so close together they had no choice but to wind around each other and climb their way up to the sky as a unit. They'd become fiercely codependent on each other, emotionally at least. Dean was a pain in the ass when he hadn't heard from Cas in a while. He was okay with it, happy even. However, it was beginning to get tiresome as it was becoming more and more clear they had no idea what was going on themselves even though it was painfully clear to everyone else. That is, until today. 

Not the best way to receive the hint, Sam supposed, looking over at Dean who had been lying, staring at the ceiling for a good fifteen minutes now. Cas had poofed away when they had reached the car after fleeing the restaurant, still lacking the locket, with nothing more than a quick goodbye and a promise to be back soon with pie. 

"Hey Dean?" Sam asked, damn near timidly. 

"I don't want to talk about it Sam."

"You may not want to but don't you think you should."

"No. I don't." He said testily, grabbed his keys and left the motel room. 

When Sam went out to get an extra towel from the lobby a few hours later, he caught a glimpse of Dean lying down in the back of the Impala, staring up the ceiling, thinking. 

________________________

"John. What you- What you did in the café. That was good. That was- Thank you." Sherlock stuttered, staring adamantly at his laptop. 

John looked up in surprise at the sudden statement, his face softening into a small smile as he saw how clearly Sherlock did not want to make a big deal out of it. "You're Welcome, Sherlock. Anytime." 

A comfortable silence filled with the sound of clicking computer keys stretched through the flat.

At around one Sherlock closed down his computer getting up blearily to go to bed. As he walked past John, on his way to his bedroom, he ran one, long fingered hand through the Doctor's hair absentmindedly, as if he weren't truly aware of what he was doing. John looked up from his newspaper in surprise, just in time to see the door to Sherlock's bedroom close softly.


End file.
